


[Planar Remnant]

by RazelKorr



Series: [Dualist] [3]
Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: ChaoticDouchebag, Gen, Kamigawa, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Ravnica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazelKorr/pseuds/RazelKorr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after [Cataclysmic Variable], Ophelia decided to finally let go when she recieves a sign that rekindles her chance at companionship. In process, and as such updates may be sporadic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Such a strange man._

Falling, falling forever…

_Why is one so young so ready to die?_

He…flies?

_He…lies…_

Doubt. Overwhelming doubt. Choices, valid at the time, now cast in disarray and uncertainty. Water rushing, pulsing, growing, approaching-

 _Death_.

No pain. No time for it. Darkness, a light, voices calling…

“Ahhh, there we go. Hello? Are you awake in there?”

Pain. Cheek aflame, gone in an instant. Vision, blurry, focusing glacially. Grey.

“Movement is a good sign. Maybe if I turn this up a bit…”

Blinding light, overwhelming white, grimacing-

“No, not to eleven-”

Vision. Focused. A room…no…a laboratory. Shoddy. Gaping, gasping, no breath to breathe but no need to either.

“Turn down autonomic responses-”

Urges recede, muscles relax, a simulacrum of consciousness crystallizes in a previously inert case of meat.

“Better. Can you speak?”

Words. Making them, difficult, but doable.

“Whaaraahmeye?”

Sounds, ambient, not just words. Fiddling. Adjustment. Flesh on flesh.

“You are back in the land of the living, at least for the moment.”

Denied an Afterlife? Or Delayed?

“Whhhaaay?”

“I have questions.”

Knowledge. Answers. Give them, die again, move on…

“AaAaaaasssssssssssk.”

A man…no…an image of a man. Grey. Roiling. Crouching, inquiring.

“Copmpliant. I like that. Wasn’t sure if I’d have to coerce you. How did you die?”

Falling, so much falling…

“Choisssssse.”

Turning, tugging, tearing, presenting. A ragged patch of cloth.

“Living in squalor like this, I can see why. You leapt from the cliff, then?”

Familiar cloth…

“Yeessss.”

Squatting. Hands, reaching, moving, adjusting. New angle. Higher. Eye to eye. Grey, roiling eyes…

“Who else was there?”

Friends, Pilgrims, that strange man and the woman…

“Otherssss.”

Rolling roiling eyes.

“To be assumed. Anyone unusual?”

They fly…they lie…

“A maaan…A woman…young…”

Visible excitement. Hurried response.

“Tell me about the man.”

_‘…your conviction…’_

“He flies…he lies…”

“Yes, yes, tell me something I don’t know.”

Kissed a horse once. Not what he means. Sarcasm. Wit. Personality.  Sense of self resurfacing.

“He…He is…servant…”

Waiting tables. One night. Forgot drinks.

“For who? Doing what?”

Probably a lie. Why so much doubt?

“Waiting…drinks…”

Grey irritation. Clearer sight. Expressive, uncontrolled, yet restrained when speaking.

“Obviously a ruse. Describe him while you fell.”

Falling, faster, stone on heels, water flying up…

“Spoke to me…conviction, envious…Leapt first…”

Nodding. Impatience.

“Probably saw the _ARCONA_ before you did. Keep going.”

“…saw it first…”

More sage nods, more explosive facial glitches, more expressions without reason.

“Any accomplices? A Giant Rat, a Woman?”

Woman…young, beautiful, seductive in suicide…

“A female, his friend…”

A third…bound, disguised…

“Another…hiding in wraps…”

“The Rat, then. What after? The fall. Tell me about the fall.”

Air whipping by, fear, anxiety, elation…

“They fell…then flew…”

Abandonment…uncertainty…fear, doubt…

“Left us…”

A Brief flash. Blazing blue. Forgotten, remembered, short and immaterial.

“Did he mention a name, at all?”

“No…”

Frustration. Irritation. Outrage. Calm prescience.

“Of course not. You’re too clever for _that_ , aren’t you, Xaing? Xeeee-aaaa-iiing.”

Xaing…? Walking, out of sight, can’t look, can’t turn, can only see…

“I wonder if there are any contextual traces left, a form of radiative residue…He was about to blow, might have left something…”

Feet pattering, hefting, tromping, dropping a headless corpse on the floor ahead. Tunic, missing fabric. So familiar…

“Did he touch you at all?”

No…touching…grasping…his robe…

“I…grabbed his shirt…”

Tangible excitement. Leaping, scrambling, manipulating the body and eagerly raising the arms. Lifelessly limp.

“Which hand?!”

Uncertainty…

“…left…”

Sadistic grin. Glowing blade.

“We’ll try both to be sure.”

Extremities cleaved from the dead. Limbs dropped, outfit wrinkling. Cursory examination, sniffing, looking, licking.

“Well, there’s nothing immediately obvious…”

Out of sight again. Crashing. Cursing. Mumbling. Look to the clothing. _So familiar_ …

“BRILLIANT! Right there! So small, so subtle, so profoundly simple of a signal…”

Signal? Simple? Speak…Ask…

“What…?”

Dropping. Clattering. Surprise. Absentmindedness. Padding over, grey man visible. Smile, glare, ambivalence.

“I always forget to shut these off.”

Arm, reaching, clicking, look to the jacket, fade to black, _so familiar…_


	2. Such Utility

Fire flickered weakly in the emptiness beside the Manor, glinting above Ophelia’s fingertip as she placed it gingerly atop the candle left to her by Chittertrix. Wick ignited, energy pulsed, wax melted and pooled, and after an hour of watching the trinket burn down to nothing…nothing had happened. Ophelia’s face scrunched in irritation.

_Naturally, he didn’t tell me what to do with it._

The fire guttered out, spitting with its last breath a signature which held a foot higher than the candle’s corpse. Woodhouse clattered to himself as Ophelia reached out to it, touching the scribing lightly and slipping between worlds. She stepped back in alarm, no longer within the safety of Razel’s Retreat, sights and sounds and smells erupting into being around her. Woodhouse appeared beside her as quickly as she had appeared, and they shared a moment of uncertainty before taking in their surroundings.

Darkened bamboo shot out of the muck at their toes with reckless abandon. Sinkholes and pools of fetid water stagnated from place to place, while the air made sure you were very well aware of being in a deathly swamp. Ophelia frowned at the scents, while Woodhouse didn’t notice in the least.  Dim lights clustered together less than a stone’s throw away, rising high in the dilapidated buildings laid in shoddy rows. Rotting reeds hid their arrival from the locals milling about, from Nezumi rat-folk to rough looking humans.  A gate close to them slammed as it shut entirely, latching closed and bringing their gaze behind them to face it.

Ophelia noticed the paw prints within moments, spying a Nezumi far along the trail now closed by the gate. She nudged Woodhouse knowingly, walking them up to the gate and ‘walking to the other side, while Woodhouse simply clambered over the wall and dropped beside her. Flora grew much denser here, yet the Nezumi not once turned to check the open trail behind him. Ophelia and Woodhouse kept off the road regardless, only returning to the path when they spied him entering the hut at the end of the walk. A reed curtain fell softly behind him, urging the pursuers forward.

Ophelia motioned the House Guard to stop, creeping up and peering beside the reeds to spy the inner abode. Confusion took her actions as she opened the curtain wide, revealing…nothing. An empty room, exactly as small on the inside as it looked on the outside. No furniture, no panels, just a hut. Woodhouse stepped quietly to the Madam’s side, peering over and expressing his own brand of confusion.

_Clack…clackety clack?_

“No, just very well prepared.”

The two of them turned in surprise, facing the Nezumi standing behind them in unmistakably ornate attire. Chittertrix leaned gently on his cane, his shawl coming to his knees as it draped over his silk robe. The cravat billowed beneath his whiskers as he offered his approximation of a smile, continuing his greeting.

“Grand to see you again! I haven’t in…how long has it been, now?”

Ophelia was visibly relieved at his recollection, her stance softening as she replied.

“Five years, to the day.”

‘Trix cocked his head.

“Funny, seems to rely greatly on a standardized concept of ‘years’.  Regardless, it’s an anniversary! Not one to celebrate, though.”

_Clackety clack clatter._

Ophelia nodded in agreement, smiling to the nostalgic bones.

“Exactly. Glad to see you too, ‘Trix.”

She gestured towards the interior of the hut.

“There’s no scar. How’d you do that?”

‘Trix drew himself to his full height, respectable as his digitigrade could allow.

“Madam, a true magician never reveals his secrets.”

Ophelia raised an eyebrow.

“Since whe-”

He continued.

“ ** _I_** , however, am not a true magician. Expect more than there is and you’ll miss what’s in front of you. I climbed through the window.”

A small window beside the door, invisible from the approach, gaped obviously at them. It was skinnier than he appeared to be, but Ophelia didn’t push the issue. ‘Trix stepped past them, motioning them into the hut and dropping the curtain. He spoke again.

“I hope you don’t mind tea. Not quite blood, but it serves as a distraction none the less.”

He placed a paw over the center of the floor, and with a shuddering heave the ground began to descend, dirt and all. A room beneath the hut had been dug out and rebuilt as a personal abode, no walls separating the varying spaces but room enough to delineate them regardless. Rolls upon rolls of fabrics sat in racks upon the left wall, colors and finishes of a blistering variety distractingly calling their eyes.

“So this is my little den. Workshop to the left, kitchen to the right, recreation dead ahead. Not as ‘fancy’ as your friend’s Manor, but it suits me.”

He wandered off, preparing a kettle as the visitors wandered around, taking in the decorations.  Ophelia admired the varying textile bundles, inspecting what seemed to be the source for ‘Trix’s cravat.

“This is some impressive fabric. Where did you find it?”

“I made it.”

She raised an eyebrow as she turned to face him.

“You’re a tailor?”

“How else could I obtain an ensemble as pristine as this?”

“Why spend five years on a loom?”

‘Trix walked over to her and handed her a small cup of tea, steaming and warm to the touch. She sipped it gingerly as he explained.

“Imagine, if you will, a world where you never need to wash your clothing. A world where, surrounded by muck and grime, you still scintillate as though it were fresh from the rack. Imagine a textile process that renders the fabric _immune_ to detrimental absorption, be it dirt, mud, dust, gore, snow, or magic!”

Ophelia blinked blandly, thoroughly unimpressed.

“So you made a fabric that is perpetually clean.”

Chittertrix lit up at her understanding.

“Precisely!”

She remained apathetic.

“Again…why?”

‘Trix was slightly flustered, offering a simple counterpoint.

“Think of the utility!”

She sipped some more.

“Can’t you just make yourself _look_ however you want?”

He frowned at her, his gaze hardening.

“I am incapable of shapeshifting in the extremes, least of all as a constant back-of-the-mind process. The less effort I put into maintaining my appearance, the more I have for other things.”

“So five years is less effort?”

They stared at each other blankly for several tense moments.

“…think of the _utility_!”

Ophelia rolled her eyes, finishing her tea and placing the dish on a nearby desk.

“Well, I hope you’ve got your process down, because I came to ask for your help.”

“Again, you mean.”

“What do you mean, ag-”

A loud crashing called their attention, Woodhouse standing with his hands raised back in front of a collapsed shelf, various bones clattering to the floor around his feet.

_Clackety…clatter…_

“No worries, my dear dead friend. As for you, Madam, I have already helped you. Or have you forgotten the night at the Academy already?”

Ophelia’s color drained as her expression faded to irritable stoicism.

“I need _another_ favor then.”

‘Trix turned to meander about his abode, carrying on as he went.

“I don’t know as that’s advisable. My debt was with Razel, not you. I repaid his favor, and so far as I’m concerned, we’re on even ground. He and I, not you and I.”

Ophelia took and held a breath for effect.

“I think he’s alive.”

‘Trix stopped where he was.

“What makes you say that?”

“His statue was repaired.”

“How does this mean he lives?”

“Very few people knew of his retreat, fewer still how to get there, and only we knew it was broken. Unless you fixed it, I am left to assume it was Razel.”

“So you took his House Guard and ran to find me?”

“Yes. We’re checking with his accomplices, or at least those we’re aware of.”

‘Trix shrugged, continuing his circuit around the abode.

“No _need_ for me to get involved, then.”

She continued to glare at him, irritably prying for info.

“Are you really not going to help? Have you heard anything, seen anything, _anything?_ ”

Nezumi whiskers twitched as he receded into recollection, pondering for a long moment.

“Nothing I can recall. I’ve been rather busy with the fabrics.”

Ophelia waited impatiently for further comment, only finding silence. After several minutes, she gave up in frustration.

“Fine. Whatever. Come on Woodhouse, we’re leaving.”

‘Trix hurriedly spoke up at their attempt to flee.

“Alright, I guess I’ll go. Nothing better to do anyway.”

She spun and gave him a venomous look.

“Then why did-”

“I like to harass you.”

The Nezumi smiled his toothiest grin as she smacked his shoulder.

“I knew you’d come ba-OW, stop that,- back when I gave you the candle. When you lit it, it made me aware of your intent to find me, giving me time enough to start on the path back to my den before the candle spat you out where I was when it died out. That’s how I knew you were following me.”

Trix wandered over to his workshop, snagging trinkets as he went. He grabbed a few rolls of the fabric, sliding them into a pouch tied to his waist which clearly held more than it let on.

“I had contemplated that night many times since, as well as his ‘unique’ problem. Actually, he partially inspired the biggest breakthrough of my textile design! Taking a cue from his Novus, I merged two variations on the same product and managed to generate a stable in-between, which let the rest of the design fall into place. I suppose I owe his memory then, if nothing else.”

He pocketed the final roll and joined the other two on his platform, the ground shuddering once more and rising to deposit them within the hut.  Chittertrix led them out of the room and around to the back, into a dense grove of rotting bamboo. The Madam was still glowering, but Woodhouse was noticeably relaxed.

“This is as isolated as we need to be. Where are we going first?”

Ophelia looked to Woodhouse, then thought to herself for a moment.

“I suppose we should check Ravnica. I know he has associates there, although we shouldn’t be too obvious about our inquiries. He left on…odd terms.”

“Odd? How so?”

_Clack clackety, clatter clatter?_

‘Trix skewed his head in uncertainty.

“His double? The same one he absorbed for that second spark?”

_Clack clack clack._

“I’d have run too.  Hm. He certainly knows how to make an impression.”

Ophelia took their hands, closing her eyes as she prepared to lead them through the eternities.

“Sadly, it’s not always a good one.”

Woodhouse simply nodded in agreement.


	3. Saproling

Golgari germination was a dirty, grimy business. Garrus hunched over a gutter, his ancient yet sturdy frame tending the moss growing from the cracks in the pavement.  His unique variety of potential was far from wasted in his pursuits, as he made more than enough to support himself through odd jobs for the other guilds. Tucking a small weed into his pocket and raising himself slowly and deliberately, he brushed the dust from his tunic and picked up his basket, ambling back to the sewers and his home.

He had been tending locally, and as a result it was not long before he spied his familiar doorway and grating above. Voices wafted out of the tenement, making him pause and drop his eaves before proceeding.

“-this is where it leads, I’m fairly certain. It’s the only one from that time, so it must be the right one.”

“Did he teach you that?”

“No, but he helped me to get better at it.”

Garrus tapped near-silently on the wall, waking a saproling which had woven itself into the grime on the wall. It fell bodily to the floor, woody tendrils raising it up to climb over and peer through the gate as the intruders went on.

“So why here?”

“I think we’re in its sewers.”

_Clack clackety clatter clatter._

“How would you know with no nose?”

Plant intelligence fell to the floor again, creeping over to the gardener as he placed a hand on the creature’s ‘head’, siphoning its experience and spying by proxy. Three individuals were in his apartment, cautiously peeking about; A woman dressed like a Rakdos Cultist, a skeleton in Dimir attire, and a giant rat, more than likely a Simic Krasis. Three guilds represented in one room, co-operating?

“Regardless, we should not linger. This appears to be a residence, and should the owner decide to come home we may not want to try and explain ourselves.”

“Truth. ‘Oh, hey, we’re from a space beyond spaces, not of this world, hope you don’t mind us crashing your place!’”

Garrus smiled as he pieced together their association, opening his door and interjecting his opinion.

“Not at all. Any friends of Razel are friends of mine. I would like to know _why_ you are here, though. Who you are might help as well.”

Their surprised expressions bore no reply, only a vacant set of stares, until the ratfolk spoke first.

“Well! Obviously he knows Roz. This is Woodhouse-”

Garrus piped up.

“We’ve met, although briefly.”

Ophelia’s face hid her curiosity as ‘Trix continued.

“I am Chittertrix, Nezumi Gentleman, and this is Ophelia, Vampire Madam.”

Garrus lit up with comprehension, padding over and smiling his ancient smile.

“Oh, YOU’RE Ophelia! Razel mentioned you several times!”

The Madam seemed slightly happier at the thought of this, momentarily revoking her mirth on further contemplation of Razel spilling his own secrets with a gardener.

“Good things, I hope?”

Garrus wandered back to his shelves, replacing his basket and taking up some shears.

“Always. Except that thing with the eel, but I think he might have been exaggerating.”

Ophelia blushed subtly.

“Probably not.”

Garrus raised an eyebrow and wandered over to his corpse planters, kneeling to trim the sproutings from a recently interred ribcage wracked with rot.

“So what can I do for you three? More importantly, why are you in my home?”

Chittertrix made to speak, but Woodhouse began to chatter excitedly.

_Clack clackety clatter clack, clatter clackety clatter clack, cla-_

Ophelia interrupted him, translating for the gardener’s benefit.

“What Woodhouse is saying is that we have reason to believe Razel is alive.”

Garrus tipped his head in confusion.

“You had reason to believe he was dead? I know he was chasing his aught when he left.”

Seizing the opportunity, ‘Trix filled him in.

“He absorbed it, and then got himself explosively sick and…well, exploded. Except that seems to have been not as fatal as we initially thought.”

Garrus trimmed a stray branch, caressing filaments of vigor through the leaves to clone it beside the original.

“This is good to hear, I suppose. Nothing really came of the chase, although there was a brief inquiry from Jarad. I don’t know about the Justicar, though.”

Ophelia was unfamiliar with the reference.

“I’m not familiar with the reference.”

Garrus looked to her like he had said too much.

“Uh…well, considering your relation with Razel, this doesn’t surprise me.”

He set the shears down, sitting in the mildew and crossing his legs.

“See, the Basilicas get daily inquiries from the Azorius regarding their goings-on, and the Justicar assigned to Razel’s Basilica apparently was a source of ‘interpersonal tension’, I believe he called it. I read it as attraction.”

Ophelia flushed, her mind emptying as she monotonously replied.

“That explains that. What did you mean by ‘I don’t know about her’?”

Garrus scratched his ears, noting ‘Trix doing the same thing.

“She was found dead a few days after he chased his own tail. Pretty brutal, too. Someone beat her, beat her apartment with her, and then turned her to dust. Literally. They found her as residue and an outfit.”

Ophelia flushed again for completely different reasons.

“He had mentioned something he didn’t want to do.”

Garrus’ eyes widened slightly before returning to their semi-squint.

“…oh.”

Chittertrix decided to move things along.

“Homicide aside, does Razel have any other contacts here that you are aware of?”

Garrus thought for a minute, coming to an answer surprisingly quick.

“Not really. More or less his whole stint here I’ve known him, and aside from the relatively recent Justicar and a questionable relation with the Obzedat’s Envoy, he pretty much kept to his job. The Envoy’s absurdly high-profile though, so that much was a secret we can’t really exploit.”

Ophelia latched on to his bait.

“We? Are you helping us out, then?”

Garrus rose creakily to his feet, smiling his recycled smile.

“Of course. I’m partially to blame for the lack of leads I suppose, so I may as well help where I can. Not much else to do right now besides.”

‘Trix ruffled his whiskers in agreement.

“Precisely! Razel picked a good time to come back.”

The gardener strode past them and started gathering a few of his meager belongings, finishing almost immediately. As he began to lead the party out of the doorway, he turned and stopped them just before the sewer proper.  His attention fell on Woodhouse, placing a hand on the exposed shoulder.

“You need to change. You will arouse _far_ too much attention, from entirely the wrong people. As for the Krasis-”

Garrus faced the Nezumi, who narrowed his eyes in offense.

“A mutation I am not. I was born this way, albeit not here.”

Garrus raised his hands apathetically.

“No harm meant, just letting you know that you will also draw undue eyes. Woodhouse is easy, a cloak will hide him. You’re a bit less…human.”

Ophelia looked to her scant attire, raising her brow.

“Perhaps we should all change.”

A few minutes later found convenient solutions to their issue. Woodhouse stood once more beneath his well-worn hood, while Ophelia wore a regal blue and black affair, going so far as to disguise her energies with a change from chaos to order to further throw off detection. ‘Trix had allowed her to transmute him into a significantly more human body, hairier than some but shorter and of a slightly padded stock.  The vent in the rear of his pants gaped without a tail, hidden behind a sash which draped where the appendage should have been. Garrus cleaned himself up slightly, but not too much, since there was no such thing as true cleanliness in the guild of rot. They followed the gardener through varying tunnels and ladders, climbing from the depths of the ecumenopolis all the way to the surface, all the while listening to Garrus reminisce about an assortment of incidents from his past.

“I remember when we _got_ Woodhouse. Roz was really excited about setting up his own retreat, but he wanted to leave a steward in his place. Obviously a duplicate was out of the question, although we did discuss it. Anyway, I remembered a rumor about the Dimir Guildhall being guarded by undead, and he seemed to really like the idea.”

‘Trix piped in from time to time with questions.

“Is this the ‘unwanted attention’ you mention?”

Garrus provided answers as he could.

“Exactly. They deal in secrets, much like Ophelia here. Their Guildhall is moved nightly, so the sight of one of their guards out and about in plain sight would be absurdly conspicuous. So as I was saying, we decided to try and find Duskmantle, if only for a guard of our own. I managed to find one of the new locations _before_ they moved to it, and as we sat in wait the Guards came first. Roz just observed them, didn’t attack, didn’t move, just watched. The hall came up, we managed to stay hidden, and after a _long_ night, they magic’d their entire building off to the next locale. Except for a single House Guard that stayed behind.”

_Clack…clackety clatter…_

“I wouldn’t expect you to, it wasn’t you anyway. So Razel decides to bag it. He leaps out from behind the corner and clotheslines the thing, which it _really_ wasn’t expecting. Then he does that hand-push-limb-ripping thing, splitting it into parts against the wall. He took it back to my place and together we rebuilt it into you. Ever wonder why your bones aren’t all from the same individual?”

_Clackety clack clatter clack._

“Really? And he never mentioned it to you? Not important, I suppose. Still, he took you to the Retreat pretty much as soon as you were whole. Probably why you don’t remember me.”

Woodhouse ruminated the revelation ruefully, not certain he enjoyed being a composite individual. Ophelia asked her own question.

“How long was Roz here before he set up the Manor?”

Garrus stroked his chin as they turned into a tunnel, sloping gently upward.

“He always kept his own time, so I wouldn’t know for certain.  I knew him for a decade or so before he confided the need for a home.”

The tunnel broke into daylight brilliantly, the throngs of people taking literally no interest on their arrival as the sea of people ebbed and flowed. Their guide and gardener gestured merrily.

“Where to first?”


	4. Obligatory Time Skip

Crossbeams split the artificial light that cascaded through the boudoir’s window. Illumination beneath the ground was rarely this pure or this white, beaming through the glass and clearly revealing the contents of the room. Ophelia sat beneath the light, slumped at her desk behind a pile of paperwork and watching dust dance through the cascade of color. A tarnished bronze candelabra burned at the edge of her desk, the four outer sticks flickering while the center stood defiantly untouched. Business as usual.

Paperwork. Endless paperwork. She could’ve delegated it to another, had one of the countless qualified individuals handle the affairs for her, but instead she opted to remain the hands-on Mistress they had grown to rely on. The day’s signatures were made, all important matters attended to for the cycle, and after a thorough audit of the assets available, refreshed registers for all storage facilities showed a margin of comfort for every soul in the refuge.

Except hers.

Ophelia found no joy in the numbers, nor joy in much of anything those days. Her visible persona remained cheery, seductive, sensual, yet when alone the madam receded within herself and remembered, replaying the events from what felt like so long ago.

_Five years now…_

Five Academy years. For all he hated them, he sure held to their standards. Not that it mattered in the end. A focused devotion to her job prevented her from facing her feelings, but with singleminded efficiency ensuring there was no more work to be done she couldn’t ignore it for long.

“He’s gone.”

Ophelia raised herself up, eying the stack of bureaucracy warily. Razel never cared for paperwork, in so far as she knew. An acquaintance she knew well, yet to most mortals, should not have been attached to. She walked over to the flames, taking the taper from the middle gingerly.  She looked it over curiously, reminiscing and reflecting on the night she set it up. Fleeing, hoping, wondering…

_I loved him._

Loved. Past tense. Couldn’t afford to be buried under emotions forever. Still, was it even valid? Is this a feeling she should’ve entertained, even after the fact? They met, adventured, an attachment grew, and then in their multiple absences and revistitations the attraction only budded and reshaped, reinforcing and binding them. Razel never admitted to a mutual feeling, but she knew he felt it, even if he tried so hard to deny his every emotion. Then he suddenly needed her help, and the one time she can genuinely assist him, she fails. Miserably. Ophelia slapped herself out of shame.

_You did the best you could with what you had._

But it wasn’t enough, was it? Not enough to save him, and not enough to absolve her feelings. Even Chittertrix was over it relatively quickly. Condolences were condensed to ‘Sorry for your loss, should you need me, you can find me with this,’ and a gift of a small pocket shrine, within a miniature candle awaiting a flame. Then the Nezumi went on his way, leaving her to continue on as she always had.

_Why does this loss hurt more than the rest?_

She cared for him, obviously. Unlike other fleeting fancies, brief friendships that couldn’t have lasted past her flight to another realm regardless, Razel was an equal, one who not only could but had done things with her no other creature was capable of.

_And he is gone._

Ophelia shook her head in irritation, stepping away from the candelabra and descending to her bed, falling into the soft sheets. A fading planar scar sat just above her chest, frigid and pulsing with extended breaths. It had dissolved to a mere shadow of its former self, but knowing it was there made it obvious none the less.

_He can’t be gone._

She couldn’t accept it. Try as she might, a lingering feeling of certainty refused to believe that Razel was simply no more. Still, Ophelia knew that if she didn’t get over whatever this was, she would never be able to continue on. Grieving is meant to be temporary, after all. A simple farewell to him and his would be all she needed to let go.

_Since I didn’t get to say it…_

Her memories briefly overwhelm her, the image of Razel aflame seared into her eyes as she had fallen between worlds and left him to his fate. She focused on the image, remembering his retreat and the Manor he called his home. She recalled the torches, ever burning, as well as the purple blaze before his patron, a source of flame and finality enough to offer the closure she felt herself desperately needing. Re-opening the scar and adding a new exit, Ophelia slid through space to resolve herself in front of the door to Razel’s Retreat.  The building was clean, but the door was sealed shut. Where normally the invisible seams were frosted, the ice had lain undisturbed for so long that it had overtaken the entirety of the entrance. Curiosity and nostalgia threatened to consume her, stopping her from going straight to the shrine. A stinging took to her eyes, blinked away just as quickly.

_I wonder if Woodhouse is home?_

She flicked her fingers, extending talons of lighting and surgically carving off sections of the ice to free the door. Satisfied with her work, she waved away the electricity, opening the aperture in the same single stroke. A gust tore into the room, kicking up a light twister of dust. The rounded walls were still filled with books, but it was clear that none had moved in a long time. A grey powdering hid several titles, not that they were legible anyway. The caged sun suspended from the ceiling was dimmer than she had ever seen it, a dull flicker giving the room a candlelit feel. The doors to the sides were closed, yet Ophelia knew better than to go for them. All the doors with that subtle yet industrial design led not to the other side of the wall, but to a single room with four more identical doors that took you where you wanted to go…assuming you knew where that was.

Ignoring them entirely, Ophelia crossed to the door on the far side, climbing the few steps and entering the courtyard. She paused to inspect the icosahedron set in the dead center of the otherwise barren space, a massive stone cast from a purple-green crystal. Glyphs filled each visible side, spinning down sequentially from a sigil atop. Aside from the stone, however, the courtyard offered naught but a look up past the eaves and out into the madness beyond. The doors to her sides also fit the scheme for the multiroom, so she ignored them and opened the door straight across, closing it behind her. Shadows hid most of the halls, but a flash of memory from one of the few times she had wandered back here reminded her to light the braziers lain on the table against the wall. She set her candle gingerly in her pouch, electricity searing the basins to fiery life.

The actual body of the manor itself laid like a horseshoe, its two wings connected by a hall in the back with a second level above mirroring the layout. A spiral stair sat in each far corner, leading up to the loft above.  Paintings filled the walls, turning it into a makeshift gallery, complemented by relics and curiosities in cases placed upon tables and curio cabinets set between the ornate frames. Grime and residue filled each finely-carved seam and crack. Windows on the outer walls climbed high, arching and letting what little ambient light was available outside seep in to ominously illuminate the portraits themselves. Their content held no rime nor reason, seemingly collected at random through the multitude of his travels. Some shifted, some moved, some remained still. The art continued to the end of the other wing, dusty and cobwebbed. Even the blood and gold carpet kicked up tufts of dirt as she padded along. Woodhouse was obviously slacking in his master’s absence.

Seeking answers up the spiral stair, Ophelia surfaced in a room that could have passed for a massive attic. Most of the center wing was left clear, yet the east and west areas were stuffed with whatever current interests or projects were at hand. Some had yet to be sorted and catalogued, some were simply brought back up in a rush of inspiration, but all of them now sat quietly, alone, together. Woodhouse had neatly organized them in so far as he could without moving them too much, just in case Razel returned, but it only highlighted the abruptness of his departure. Even the Manor itself _felt_ different, preserved for eternity but falling to disrepair none the less without the literal soul of the house.

The disarray was hard to take, but it served to solidify the finality of the situation. Ophelia hung her head and sadly slunk back to the foyer, passing flame and crystal alike to flop in a dusty chair and cloud the room once more. The sound of a handle turning startled her, causing her to straighten up and widen her eyes. The east door opened to reveal only a violet-clad skeleton, milling about aimlessly. At sight of the Madam he shot over to her side, chattering excitedly and hugging her tight.

_CLACK CLACKETY CLATTER CLATTER! CLAKETY CLACK-_

“Woodhouse, calm down! I’m glad to see you too. Have you heard from…?”

His jaw hung open for a moment, closing slowly as he shook his head.

_Clatter clack clack._

“If I had, I wouldn’t be here to ask you, would I? Have you even left the Manor, since…?”

 _Clatter clackety clatter_.

Ophelia stood up and placed an arm around the skeleton’s shoulders.

“Can’t say as I blame you. It’ll be alright, though. I just…I needed to say goodbye, is all. I didn’t get to, before…”

She fell silent, Woodhouse placing his arm around her as well. She smiled.

“You know, for undead, you’re surprisingly considerate.”

_Clack clack clatter._

The pair walked to the door, standing in the open aperture.

“You know, I can always use another pair of hands. Especially a pair as talented as yours.”

_Clackety…clatter…clack?_

Ophelia laughed out loud, the humor a welcome respite from her own feelings so far.

“No, no, obviously not. I employ more than just those, you know. Besides, the puns would be unbearable.”

Woodhouse chuckled silently, looking to the shrine across the pool.

“I’m going to be done with it now. This candle…”

She withdrew the taper from her pouch.

“It’s the last one. Five of these I’ve lit. Five anniversaries. I’ll close it all, light it with the flame from his Shrine. Fitting, I think.”

_Clatter clackety clatter._

Ophelia nodded, reminiscing in her own way.

“Yeah, then she went and abandoned him. I can only hope that she kept her promise and lead him through the afterlife. Kind of a harsh move, if you ask m-”

She cut herself short, cautiously taking a step before looking away and rubbing her eyes. Woodhouse cocked his head, expressing confusion one of the few ways he knew how.

“Did…did you…?”

Woodhouse looked around, unsure of what she meant. He followed as she strode cautiously across the bridge, between the suspended torches still blazing with tireless efficiency.

_Click clack clatter. Clackety…?_

“Right, hadn’t left the Manor…but then…how...”

Ophelia ascended the stair, looking down to the raging purple flame and back to the statue. Woodhouse joined her visual inquiry, the image already very familiar to him. A robe, billowing eternally, countless hands emerging from its sides with blood-red talons, a crimson crown and a headpiece supporting banners of shadow as they cradled an ivory mask of finely detailed porcelain, black hair cascading down the fabric. Woodhouse saw nothing out of the ordinary, and expressed his confusion.

_Clack clackety. Clatter clack._

“Right. But wasn’t the mask cracked last time I was here?”

Woodhouse thought for a moment, realization drawing his gaze back to the intact, unblemished features of Razel’s patron. Ophelia was right. Woodhouse was confused.

_Clackety…_

Ophelia reached out to stroke the mask, a tingle running through her fingertips as she caressed the cold ceramic cheeks.

“Well if you didn’t, who did?”

He couldn’t come up with an answer. Ophelia simply looked smug.

“I knew he wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of. So what do you say, Woodhouse? I’ve got nothing better to do, so…want to go find Razel?”

Somehow, Woodhouse squealed.


End file.
